


The Weight of Her Hand

by Jude81



Series: Warrior Nun [1]
Category: Warrior Nun (TV)
Genre: Angels, Demons, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Swords, more to be added - Freeform, nuns kicking ass
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:40:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26826772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jude81/pseuds/Jude81
Summary: Ava reflects on the aftermath of fighting Adriel and what her growing feelings for Sister Beatrice means.
Relationships: Sister Beatrice & Ava Silva, Sister Beatrice/Ava Silva
Series: Warrior Nun [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1956799
Comments: 9
Kudos: 50





	The Weight of Her Hand

**Author's Note:**

> I know this chapter is short, which is very unusual for me, as anyone who has read my other fics knows. I also rarely write in the present tense, but the 1st chapter seemed to lend itself to that. I might change it later, I'm not sure. Please let me know what you think about the tense etc? 
> 
> This is intended as part of a two story series. The rating on this may change. It won't be explicit, but the sequel will be.
> 
> For Poe.

_Can you feel my hand?_

_Can you feel my hand?_

_Ava?_

_Ava, please._

****************************************************** 

The words resound in Ava’s head, as bells echoing distantly, melodic in a way she’d never heard before in the pulsing heart of the city of cathedrals. 

_Ava? Can you feel my hand? Ava!_

_Yes._

It’s been 15 hours, 32 minutes, and some seconds; and she can still feel the weight of Beatrice’s hand. It is burned into her chest just as deeply as the halo she carries inside. She is sure of it. She can feel it with every breath she takes, the puckered skin of her chest tightening as she inhales, itching and burning when she exhales. It is real. She is sure of it. 

She pulls her shirt apart, the soft worn laces sliding through the eyelets with barely a whisper. Nothing. There is no mark, just a haphazard dash of freckles across her skin. Even the burning wound where Adriel had stabbed her 15 hours hours, 35 minutes ago is gone, healed, not even a scar to mark its passing. 

She was so sure. So sure it would be there, for she can feel it. She traces the area, her finger moving along her chest over her heart where Bea had laid her hand. She closes her eyes. She can still feel the weight of her hand, but not the blood that she knows must have poured from the wound, the pain surpassed by the sight of Bea’s face filling her cloudy vision. 

Bea looks…worried. Afraid. Her eyes a little too wide, her eyes glistening strangely in the low light. Bea is speaking, but she can’t hear her, her ears are ringing, her vision stretched beyond what it should, and all she can see is Bea. 

And then she can feel it, the pain crushing her from within. Adriel. He stabbed her, and she can almost feel the blood pooling on her chest. She wants to scream, but her voice is lost in the breath that wheezes from her lungs. She gasps, her chest heaving as she struggles to sit up, struggles to say Bea’s name. 

And then she feels it, Bea’s hand, pressed against the wound on her chest, her fingers digging slightly into the skin as she tries to staunch the flow of blood. The pain fades from her mind under the weight of Bea’s hand, steady and safe. 

Ava opens her eyes, Bea’s face gone, only her own staring back at her in the mirror. She presses her hand more firmly against the skin over her chest. It isn’t puckered or scarred after all. It is healthy and whole. Her skin tingles lightly, and she wonders if it is her imagination, but it grows and crackles. She can feel the shadow of Bea’s hand lingering still, the barest weight of it soft but firm. 

She lets her hand fall away, staring intently into the mirror, her own face fades slowly from the mirror like fog on an early morning. She squints her eyes, she swears she can almost see the pure white of an outline burned into her chest. 

Beatrice. 

Bea. 

She stumbles back gasping as it burns like a holy wwhite fire, crackles across her nerves, all her senses flaring to life. She can hear Camila giggling with some of the other girls, four rooms down, four rooms separated by thick, ancient stone. She can hear Father Vincent pacing in his study down a long and down the dark twisting stairs. She closes her eyes trying to block out the sounds, but she can also smell the ancient rock walls, the candle wax and burnt prayers from 500 years ago. 

She clenches her teeth pushing it all from her mind refusing to be distracted. She opens her eyes, her breath leaving her lungs like a rushing wind. The strain on her lungs clears her mind, and she can see it now, the clearly pulsing outline of Bea’s hand. It is there. It is real. 

Her hands tremble as she carefully pulls the laces tight, hiding it from view. 

Halo. 

It is a halo. She is as sure of it, as sure as she is her own name. 

She turns off the light letting the darkness rise and rest across her shoulders. She turns toward her bed, she can see it even in the dark. Everything is a filtered gray with strange shadows, but she can see. She can see, and she can feel. 

She sleeps.

**Author's Note:**

> Thoughts?


End file.
